<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Here we sit by TheGreenMeridian</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573922">Here we sit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian'>TheGreenMeridian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Holding Hands, Inspired by Art, M/M, Soft frosty boys, seriously this is so soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:07:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,474</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Here, though, frozen mid-toss and enveloped in ice, he is unable to find a moment’s steadiness.</p><p>For the “holding hands” square on my Terror Bingo.</p><p>(And retroactively gifting this to kingbooooo as a Fitzier exchange treat)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fall Fitzier Exchange Treats, The Terror Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Here we sit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/gifts">kingbooooo</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by this beautiful art by amatlapl on tumblr:</p><p>https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/623645591663198208/commission-some-sweet-cold-boys</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This damned tilt!” James hisses as his shoulder collides with the wall. “How on earth are you so sure-footed?”</p><p>A low chuckle, the sound echoing oddly in the belly of the ship. “Practice.”</p><p>In harshest winds at sea, James is practically a mountain-goat, balancing and moving with every roll without conscious effort, his body becoming one with the peaks and troughs of even the most violent waves. Here, though, frozen mid-toss and enveloped in ice, he is unable to find a moment’s steadiness. Yet Francis knows this unnatural landscape as well as James knows the waves, and is exceedingly familiar with the creaks and moans of the living substance that devours their ships. Something twists in James’ gut at the thought.</p><p>They move further into the orlop, James trying to keep the sound of his shuffling as unnoticed as possible. As with men, a decent amount of supplies have been moved to Erebus too, and the tight space at least allows him steady surfaces upon which he can brace himself. Neither discussed the possibility of assigning men to the duty of counting and weighing their supplies. No, let this grim task be theirs and theirs alone. Only the officers need know exactly how few they have, and the dismal number need not be accompanied by a visual. </p><p>At last they reach the spot at which they finished the day previous, and James manages not to wince as he lifts a crate from a stack and sets it upon the floor. If Francis hears the sharp crack of his knees as he crouches down to open its lid, he gives no indication. </p><p>“More spoiled,” he sighs, the smell of rancid meat hitting him. “Hopefully something we can salvage.”</p><p>“I wonder if we shouldn’t toss the waste to the rats. Let them grow fat on it.”</p><p>James has had similar thoughts. It is unsettling how quickly one’s mind turns to alternative sources of sustenance, even before true hunger has taken hold. The idea had struck him even before the blood began blooming upon his hairline. He gives no reply to Francis.</p><p>One by one the cans are inspected, the spoiled forming a pile to his left and the few edible among them gathered at his right. Even those will kill them, of course, but at least at a much slower pace than the ones that have begun to rot, and with hopefully less misery than starvation.</p><p>They work silently through two stacks of crates, James counting the first and Francis the second. By alternating, they each get equal opportunity to sit with reasonable comfort rather than kneel on the hard floor, and each get turns at breathing air not befouled by the contents of the cans. The rhythm is one they fell into naturally when they first began the undertaking the week prior, and it works well enough that neither have seen fit to change it. James holds his breath and rises to his feet as Francis pushes the final crate of waste to its designated corner, but a hand upon his shoulder eases him back down upon the chest that serves as a seat.</p><p>“Let us take a rest. We’ve time enough,” he says, kind and commanding.</p><p>“We really ought to—”</p><p>“James, we’ll have it done. I promise you.” He sinks down onto the other end of the chest with a grunt and fishes a canteen from inside his coat, and takes a long swig of it before thrusting it towards James. “Here.”</p><p>To James’ shame he half expects the harsh bite of whiskey, but the canteen contains only water. He swallows a few mouthfuls of it and hands it back. “Thank you. I did not realise quite how much of a thirst I’d worked up.”</p><p>“It’s the frost in the air. It dries one out, mouth and skin. It’ll be worse when we’re walking.”</p><p>James fishes about in his own pockets for the small stack of biscuits he’d wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked away on something of a whim. Under Francis’ curious gaze he unwraps them and holds the parcel out in offering.</p><p>“Dundy would never forgive me if he knew we still had some Duchess of York’s left. But I thought you might wish to share in my secret supply.”</p><p>Warmth blooms in Francis’ eyes, and a small smile tugs at his lips and rounds his cheeks. “I’m honoured,” he says, plucking one from the stack, “that I am privy to such a treat. My sympathies to Lieutenant Le Vesconte.”</p><p>“‘Tis his own fault for exhausting his personal supply so soon into our voyage.” James bites off a corner of the biscuit, miraculously not stale despite its age. One benefit to the constant chill, he supposes.</p><p>In a silence punctuated by moaning beams, they eat the little hoard and share Francis’ water between them. It is an odd sort of peace. Thrice James has known the man who sits beside him contemplatively chewing upon a biscuit. First as a storied hero to whom he aspired, then as the bitter disappointment who scorned his attempts at friendship, and finally as the bestial creature that assaulted him. This fourth incarnation contains elements all three and yet is completely distinct, and James has yet to fully find his footing with him.</p><p>“How are you fairing?” Francis asks after swallowing his final mouthful.</p><p>James wets his finger and collects a few stray crumbs from his lap. There is of course no easy answer, no way to form a summation of the days spent poking his teeth with his tongue and the nights being assaulted by terrible screams and the stench of charred flesh. He sucks the collection of crumbs from the tip of his finger, loathe to waste even these mere specks of nourishment.</p><p>He considers lying, donning the cloak of bravado he has always seen fit to have at the ready in Francis’ presence, but it will not come.</p><p>“I do not sleep as well as I should. I suppose I shall need to find a way to remedy that before we set out. I’ll need the strength.”</p><p>“You will. I hope you know I will always lend an ear, should you need to talk, though I understand if you would rather seek counsel from others.”</p><p>“I would,” he admits, “though not for the reasons you imagine. I... I fear I would be too ashamed to speak candidly to you.”</p><p>Francis’ face softens, and James notices his hands flex abortively around the hat. “It wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>“It was. I should’ve— Christ, I should have noticed the state he was in. It was my duty, Francis, and I failed.” He shakes his head, looks down and lets his hair flop in front of his face. Thank the Lord, no blood drips from it. “I had all of them gathered for a foolish party, ready for him to slaughter, while I was letting myself be carried about like some child emperor. I despise myself for it.”</p><p>He allows himself a second more of indulgence in his pathetic misery, then forces his shoulders square and his head upright. The sorrow in Francis’ eyes almost has him hiding behind his hair again.</p><p>“Had I not been suffering the effect of my own selfish misery, perhaps you would not have had the duty of so many men to care for,” Francis says gently. “You can hardly be blamed for letting one in particular escape your notice with over a hundred more needing your attention. Christ, I didn’t even give you a Lieutenant, did I?”</p><p>“You didn’t. I should have asked for one, though. Or ordered one to Erebus.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you?”</p><p>“I suppose I felt I should be able to manage. I... wanted to impress you,” he admits.</p><p>He brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear for want of something to do with his hand. It has barely begun to retreat back to his lap before it freezes in shock at the feel of Francis plucking the other from where it has been clenched around a fistful of greatcoat.</p><p>“You have impressed me, James. You continue to do so. I am only sorry I did not allow you to impress me sooner.”</p><p>It’s the first meaningful touch he’s felt in years, and it holds him rooted to the spot and barely able to breathe. Francis’ hand is warm, the skin lined with a sailor’s callouses and the effects of the perpetual winter. It holds his with a delicacy that seems out of place entirely for such a blunt instrument of a man, and James wonders if Miss Cracroft had been held quite so tenderly. If she had, how ever had she denied Francis’ proposals?</p><p>He swallows around a tongue that has become thick and dry. “I impress you?”</p><p>“You do,” Francis says, looking down at where their hands remain together. He runs his thumb lightly over James’ knuckles, and his lips part almost as if he too is shocked by the motion. “You are far more than I ever gave you credit for, James.”</p><p>“And you are exactly the man I admired and longed to meet,” he croaks. </p><p>As a treat before his first voyage, the Conninghams had taken him to the theatre in London, and James had become thoroughly enraptured with the young Othello. The broad set of his shoulders and the curious way his American accent moulded the grand monologues remained present in his mind long after he set sail, the man coming to him in dreams as he lay alone in his hammock. He had realised months later the source of his obsession, awakening to the jeers of his fellow sailors at the sodden state of his britches and the lingering rush of cruel pleasure that held much power to ruin him as Iago’s most finely crafted lies.</p><p>A similar realisation strikes him now, though the blow comes not with fear but with fragile shoots of hope that seem green and alive even in this desolate place.</p><p>He sees now with stark clarity evidence of the emotion that has somehow remained unnoticed, like wiping condensation from a window to gaze fully upon himself. The desperation to gain Francis’ attention, the impulses to needle him for a response, the intensity of his disappointment whenever Francis was not the man James had read about with such voracious appetite. It is clear now. It is clear too why the sensation of Francis’ skin against his own sends such thrilling warmth through his very veins, and why it causes such an ache behind his sternum that their hands must eventually part.</p><p>Even were they out in the worst of storms, his cheeks would surely be blazing as hot as they are now. His fingers flex, a minute twitch that must catch Francis’ attention for he looks up with an expression that, if James may let himself hope, seems almost to be one of longing.</p><p>Slowly, inch by inch, Francis lifts their joined hands until James feels the humidity of breath wash over his skin. Francis gives him a last, weighty look before letting his eyes close and—</p><p>“Oh,” James breathes, a shiver taking hold of his spine as Francis’ lips grace the back of his hand. </p><p>They are dry and chapped and perfect for it, and James is at once convinced that the warmth of them will stay imprinted upon his skin for the remainder of his days. When Francis lifts his head, his eyes are bleary, dazed. His natural tendency towards shyness so clearly at war with whatever strange magic seems to have them both in its thrall.</p><p>“I had not expected you to allow it,” Francis says in an almost-whisper.</p><p>“Yet you did it anyway?”</p><p>“I did. I am foolish in my hopes for returned affections even at the end of the Earth, it seems.”</p><p>The hand clenched at his shoulder finally moves, reaching out to brush over Francis’ cheek and finding it just as blazingly hot as his own. “Not foolish at all,” James says gently.</p><p>The meeting of their lips is inevitable and unstoppable, a force pulling them together as magnets unimpeded by the strange effects of the Pole. It is a chaste and delicate thing, a careful introduction to the act after both have spent so long without so much as a suggestion of such a thing; it is made all the sweeter by how Francis continues to cradle his hand as though it were some precious and fragile antique deserving of his care. Perhaps it is, James thinks. At least to Francis’ reckoning. Perhaps all of him is something to be cherished now, as he is certain he cherishes Francis.</p><p>He is aware enough of his surroundings to flinch as Francis reaches to stroke his hair, and grateful when the hand retreats to instead graze the curve of his waist. Let Francis believe him whole, while such a thing is still possible. This blessed haven amongst the crates need not know such terrible things as the illness that devours him nor the certainty that any attempt at consumption of this new love will be impossible on his part. </p><p>They separate in unison, and the look that passes between them is almost as wonderful as their kiss. He brings Francis’ hand to his lips and bestows a kiss that mirrors the tender gift to his own.</p><p>“I am yours,” he says honestly.</p><p>Though he has only known it for a few minutes, there is no doubt at all that the sentiment is true. He kisses the hand again, turns it in his grasp and lays another upon the inside of Francis’ wrist where the blood flows through him, strongly enough that James fancies he can feel it against his lips. He will keep it flowing at all cost. This man must live, must make it home well and safe, even if James himself cannot. The men can spare him, he knows. They cannot spare Francis, and James could not carry on without him.</p><p>“Would that we had no work left to complete,” he murmurs against the paper thin skin shielding Francis’ veins. “I would much prefer to spend the remainder of this day as we are now.”</p><p>“We must finish quickly, then,” Francis says.</p><p>His voice is but a soft rasp, and James lets it settle over him, softening the sharp edges of emotion spent too long denied to even himself. With much reluctance he lays Francis’ hand down upon the since forgotten cap.</p><p>“My turn, I think,” he says with a smile.</p><p>Francis nods, though he stands to lift the next crate down himself. </p><p>As James busies himself with prying open the lid and Francis readies the pen and paper for their tally, he thinks to himself that their task no longer seems quite so miserable as it did when they started.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>James’ boyhood crush was on the actor Ira Aldridge. He was born in New York and traveled to Europe as a young man seeking better prospects for a black actor than America had to offer at the time. He found considerable success in both England and continental Europe, and was especially popular in Russia. A plaque honouring him can be found at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>